


Wherever We Go...

by IncomingAlbatross



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Sea Grunkles, Stan O' War II, Stangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 00:49:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19860823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncomingAlbatross/pseuds/IncomingAlbatross
Summary: It wasn't Bill--Bill had been dead for years.It wasn't an attack by another anomaly--they'd fought off their fair share of those.It wasn't even any of the natural health problems you might expect in men of their age and histories--they'd headed off some of those issues, but were both surprisingly hale and hearty, on the whole.No. This was something Ford hadn't even thought to fear."I'm thinkin' it's probably time for me to call it a day on this sailin' thing and go home," Stanley said. "We’ve both gotta find our own way in the world sooner or later, right?”





	Wherever We Go...

_Strangling blackness--terror--darkness reaching, consuming--_

Ford awoke, with a gasp, to the daylight of the Stan O’ War’s cabin.

Stanley, already making breakfast, looked over. “You all right there, bro?” he asked, forehead creased in concern.

Ford rubbed at his face. “I--yes. Just a bad dream.” He tried to pull together what it was that he’d been dreaming, but anything coherent had already fled his mind, leaving only a handful of dark impressions. He looked up with a smile, ready to tell his brother as much if he pressed--

\--But Stanley just nodded, almost absently, and turned back to the stove.

Ford blinked in surprise. “…Are you all right, Stanley? Did you sleep well?”

“Who, me?” Stanley laughed. “Yeah, sure, I’m fine.” He paused a second. “Just…gettin’ a little old, I guess.”

Ford snorted and let it go, swinging out of his bunk.

* * *

“Stanley.”

“Hm?”

Ford frowned. “You’ve been…quiet…all day. Is there something on your mind?”

Stan looked over at him. They were on the deck of their boat, gray skies and gray water stretching out around them.

“Nothin’ much,” he said slowly. “Just…We’re gettin’ old, Ford.”

He couldn’t suppress a snort at that. “By whose standards?” They might both ache a bit after a long day, but they’d been taking on everything the ocean could throw at them for the past four years and hadn’t lost yet.

“Fine, fine.” Stanley waved a hand. “ _I’m_ gettin’ old.” That hadn’t been remotely what Ford meant (Stanley was still practically invincible, as far as he could tell), but his brother continued before he could get a word in edgewise. “Thinkin’…these past four years’ve been great, but maybe I oughta quit while I’m ahead, y’know?”

The air grew colder than ice, an arctic wind suddenly sweeping over their little boat.

“What?” Ford asked numbly.

Stanley just kept looking out at the sea, that thoughtful frown on his face. “Retire, I mean,” he said. “At least, retire from the adventuring thing…I mean, Soos and Melody and their kids are back in Gravity Falls. I’m thinkin’ it’s probably time to call it a day on this sailin’ thing and go home, settle down where I can watch the little Mysteries grow up.” The frown had been replaced by a fond half-smile as he spoke.

Ford stared at him, confusion battling with a creeping dread. “What…” He trailed off, tried again. “Wh-where is this coming from, Stanley?”

Stanley looked at him for a second, brown eyes puzzled and concerned. “C’mon, Ford. I mean, we can’t do this _forever._ It’s been nice…Heck, it’s been _great,_ goin’ around the world findin’ all the weird stuff out there.” He smiled, genuine, slightly hesitant. “It really has been the adventure of a lifetime, huh?”

_Has been?_

Ford was dimly aware his heart was racing in his chest, hammering away with useless adrenaline. Most of him, however, was trying frantically to reconcile his understanding of reality--his preconceptions of the future-with Stanley’s words.

_Has been?_

It wasn’t working.

“…I didn’t realize there was an end date?” He winced inwardly--he hadn’t meant that to sound like a question--but outwardly he was still stiff and numb. Immovable.

Stanley laughed. “I mean, it’s not like we can sail around the world huntin’ for treasure _forever,_ Sixer. We’re adults, not those starry-eyed twelve-year-olds we used t’be. I’m glad we got the chance to _do_ it--y’know that I am. But…we’ve done it, right? Time to go back to real life.”

There was a two-sided photo case in Ford’s innermost pocket, tucked close to his heart. He had received it, as a combined present from most of his loved ones together, on the first birthday after his return. Made from some waterproof, pressure-proof, impact-proof, nigh-indestructible material developed by Fiddleford, it had a simple but practical design worked out by Dipper and an exterior--courtesy of Mabel--covered in charming patterns of stars, trees, glasses, sailboats, and fish.

Inside, it held two photos. On one side, the tattered picture of two boys, atop a wrecked sailboat, that he’d carried through decades and universes; on the other, a picture of two old men on a pier, newly-completed cruiser behind them and their arms slung around each other, beaming at the future.

He’d thought, when he received it, that it was a promise, a pledge. _Things have changed. You have a present to cherish now, not just a past._ He’d thought…

He’d thought a lot of things. But he’d never thought, before, to dwell on the fact that Stan hadn’t been involved in that gift.

Maybe he should have.

“Real life,” he echoed, the words seeming distant and detached from his own mouth. “Of course.”

Of course what he’d assumed was their happy ending was only Stanley’s vacation. He really should have learned not to make assumptions by now, shouldn’t he?

“What…Pardon me for asking, but what _is_ my place in this plan?”

Stanley raised his eyebrows, looking as if someone had asked him for a complimentary discount at the Shack gift shop. “…I didn’t make a plan for _you_ , Poindexter.”

Oh.

This was…

He _really_ wasn’t prepared for this.

Ford’s heart felt as though it were trying to jump through his sternum, but the rest of him was still frozen in that unnatural calm. “I don’t understand.”

(But part of him did, really. It just didn’t _want_ to.)

Stanley looked uncomfortable for the first time in this conversation…But still more confused than genuinely troubled. “I just figured you could make your own plan, Stanford. I mean, we’re both grown men. Now we’ve done the Stan O’ War thing, I just…It feels like time to move on, y’know? Do somethin’ else, figure out what’s next for me. If you want to keep the boat, feel free--I kinda thought you might--and if you find somethin’ else too…” He shrugged. “Well, that’s up to you. Like I said, you’re a grown-up now. We’ve both gotta find our own way in the world sooner or later, right?” He paused. “But, y’know. We’ll keep in touch.”

Ford’s mind blurred out the world.

Did he answer? He must have said something--he had a vague impression of Stanley clapping him on the shoulder, saying something about him being a “smart guy” with a grin before disappearing. But he didn’t know what he’d said, or how.

He was lost in a roaring flood of terror, abandonment, screaming grief--

_\--please please please, not again, not after everything--_

_\--not enough not enough, what did I do wrong--_

_\--why don’t you want me anymore--_

_\--I thought--_

_\--I thought--_

_\--I can’t lose you again. I can’t lose_ everything. _I can’t start over when I’ve tasted happiness and then used it up._

“Please,” he heard himself whimper, as if through a thick barrier. “Stan, _please…_ ”

But then vengeful memory arose in his mind, and cut his plea short with a few words.

_“You’d better visit me on the other side of the country!”_

This was what he’d done, all those years ago.

Told his own brother _I don’t want you,_ told him _I’m leaving you behind, fend for yourself,_ told him _I don’t care what you do, but don’t come with me._

(He hadn’t _meant_ all of that, had never dreamed of _thinking_ most of it…but he’d said it. Without examining his words or his motives, let alone Stanley’s perspective on either.)

Could he complain, could he even be surprised, if his brother had finally figured out Ford wasn’t the best company he could have and acted accordingly?

No.

He really couldn’t.

All he could do was stand there, as the wind rose and night began to fall in earnest, and feel himself shatter from the inside out as he faced a cold, empty future

* * *

Stanley shouted his name.

He was lost in the middle of the all-consuming darkness, and he still felt he was shaking to pieces, but…Stanley was shouting his name.

Why?

“ _Ford!”_

He sounded worried. Was something wrong?

“Where are you? Sixer, lemme know if you can hear me!”

It took a great effort to open his mouth, to force the words into existence, but Ford managed it somehow.

“I’m here.”

The words were flat and lifeless, and for a moment he wasn’t sure if he’d actually said them, or just imagined saying them…but then he heard Stan again.

“Sixer? Sixer, I heard that! I’m coming, just hold on!”

 _Hold on?_ _To what?_

Did Stanley think he was in some sort of danger?

He couldn’t find it in him to call back again and ask. It wasn’t as if it mattered, anyway…Stanley wasn’t going to be around much longer.

“STANFORD!”

Ford jolted, finding Stan suddenly in front of him. His brother grabbed one of his shoulders--the contact shockingly solid, shockingly _real_ , somehow--face full of violent concern.

“Sixer, hey, it’s okay. Whatever’s goin’ on, it’s okay, I gotcha…” Worried, determined eyes scanned his face. “What do I need to punch, Ford?”

Ford stared back at him. “…What are you talking about?” Did his devastation show so clearly? He couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t let Stanley see.

(…Though, would it make any difference if he did?)

Stanley shut his eyes for a second. “Right. Right, okay.” He opened them again, still focused on Ford. “This is a nightmare, Ford.”

He felt his heart pick up a bit more in confused apprehension. “What is?”

“I…” Stanley shook his head in frustration. “Everything around us. Literally!”

 _I know you want to leave, but is it really that bad?_ was what Ford _almost_ said…

But somehow, what came out was “Please stop misusing the word ‘literally.’”

He cringed.

Stan had long ago established he didn’t _actually_ mind Ford’s pedantic tendencies, within reason, but _now?_ Now was _not the time._ (Even if Stanley _had_ heard him rant multiple times about this particular offense and how it _destroyed all meaning_ the word could _possibly_ hold…)

Stanley groaned, but there was a laugh mixed into it.

“Stanford…” His grip tightened. “I’m not ‘misusing’ it. This is _literally a nightmare!_ ”

He stared at him.

Then he stopped, and really took in the past…day? The uncannily blackened sea and sky, the way time had skipped and dragged unevenly, his fluctuating disconnect from his own bodily operations…

What Stanley had said.

“Is it?” he asked, voice faint and hopeful.

“It is,” his brother said, bringing up his other hand to Ford’s shoulder. “Whatever’s been happening, it ain’t real. So--”

“Wait.” His brother was rescuing him…from his brother?

“What about you? If this is a nightmare--” and he couldn’t deny it felt like one “--wouldn’t you be part of it?”

Stanley shook his head. “It’s…It’s not a normal nightmare. Somethin’ got the jump on us--I didn’t get a good look, I’m sorry--and you…went down. It got in your head somehow, and I couldn’t wake you up, so, uh…I used one of your mind spells to come in after you.” He grimaced. “Sorry.”

“So…you’re real. And nothing else here is.”

Stanley looked relieved. “Right.”

“All right. That’s one explanation.”

Stanley stopped looking relieved. “There’s another one?”

Ford nodded, unable to maintain eye contact. “It’s also possible that…everything else is real, and I’m just having a complete mental breakdown right now. As a reassuring hallucination, you seem…not implausible.”

He groaned again, loud and long. “For cryin’ out loud, Sixer, _why_ …” He trailed off, rolling his eyes, and wordlessly pulled Ford into a hug.

“Do I _feel_ like a hallucination?”

Ford froze, but only for a second. “No,” he admitted. “You…No. Not at all.” In fact, Stanley felt more real than anything had since this…

Since this nightmare began.

Ford returned his brother’s embrace, sinking into it as he wrapped his own arms around Stan’s back. His breaths were starting to come quicker with the sudden relief, but he could finally, _finally_ , feel his heartrate begin to slow.

“ _Thank you,”_ he murmured into Stanley’s shoulder, and felt him nod in return.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “I gotcha.”

After a moment or two he added, voice hardening, “So. What _do_ I need to punch?”

 _Oh_ , Ford remembered, once more becoming aware of the surrounding scape’s pervasive gloom.

Even though his real brother was right here with him, they weren’t actually _free_ from the nightmare yet…

“Ford?” his brother asked uncertainly. “You don’t gotta say…I can probably figure it out.”

…But he knew it wasn’t real. Stanley was _right here._

So why did the feelings of the nightmare still have such a grip on him?

“Was it a Bill thing?” his brother asked, voice worried and protective. “Or did…someone die?”

“You’re leaving,” he blurted out.

“Huh?”

He buried his eyes in his brother’s shoulder, trying to shut out the hostile darkness. “You’re going to leave me,” he repeated. “You said…The nightmare said you were done, you wanted to go home to Gravity Falls and ‘do your own thing.’ Thought we needed our own lives.” He gave a pained laugh. “And yes, I’m aware of the irony here.”

Stanley made a very odd, very pained noise. Ford raised his head quickly, and found there was an odd, pained look on his face as well.

“Ford,” he said slowly, seeming not quite able to come to grips with all of this, “ _that_ was your nightmare?”

“ _Apparently?_ I mean, it’s--it’s certainly not something I’ve consciously feared, but…maybe that’s why this thing picked it. So that I wouldn’t have any defenses against it…” Ford took a deep breath.

“It certainly very thoroughly blindsided me,” he said quietly. “But then again, given that dream-states generally come with belief in the dream, I…I can’t really imagine what defenses I _could_ have had.”

“Stanford,” his brother said. He had one hand on Ford’s shoulder and the other on the back of his neck--keeping him close, keeping him grounded, just like always--and his eyes were filled with a pained, helpless anger. “That…You know that’d never happen, right? Like, that is literally the _exact opposite_ of anything I would _ever_ want.”

“I…” Ford struggled with himself--and the nightmare’s grip on him--for a moment. “I know it’s not like you. Yes. But…” He bit his lip. “I wouldn’t _blame_ you.” How could he? After everything, how could he?

“That’s not the _point,_ ” Stanley growled, grasp tightening for an instant. “I don’t care if you’d blame me--though _I_ think I’d have a few socks to the face comin’--I care that I _literally_ can’t think of anything I’m less likely to want than to ‘do my own thing.’” He let go for a moment to make vicious one-handed air quotes. “I _did_ that for way too long, Ford! This…” Stanley swallowed. “The life we’ve got now is the happiest I’ve ever been. And I could deal with losin’ the Stan O’ War, if I _had_ to, but…” He struggled for a moment. “I couldn’t deal with losin’ you.”

Ford hugged him again.

“Thank you,” he whispered, feeling his eyes sting. He knew how hard it was for Stanley, even now, to actually verbalize the things that he felt deeply. The fact that he had now possibly meant _more_ than having literally plunged into Ford’s nightmares to save him. “Thank you. I don’t…I couldn’t stand it, Stanley. You were talking as if…as if this were a _side trip,_ a way to divert yourself for a few years before going back to what mattered, and I…I was so _lost._ ”

And then he remembered, again, who he was talking to, and what he himself had said once upon a time.

( _“If this doesn’t work out, sure, we can do the treasure hunting thing,”_ the voice of memory laughed.)

He flinched. “But I can’t complain,” he added hastily. “As I said, I’m aware of the irony that _I_ had this nightmare about _you._ ” He paused a moment. “Perhaps it’s poetic ju--”

“ _Stanford Pines!_ ”

He fell silent, startled. Stanley sounded _uncannily_ like Ma on occasion.

“So help me, Sixer,” Stanley growled, “if you say the words ‘poetic justice’ I _will_ punch you.” He shook him, very slightly, for emphasis.

“…I guess I won’t say it, then.”

“Knew you were the smart one, Poindexter.”

“Still, though,” he said more quietly, “you can’t deny--”

“I can deny whatever I want to deny!” Stanley cut him off, sounding offended. “I’ve been doin’ it my whole life and I don’t see any reason to stop _now_.”

Ford snorted despite himself. “All right, you can,” he agreed. “…I’m not sure if I can, though.”

“What, you can’t deny that you deserve to get hurt because of somethin’ you already beat yourself up over?” Stanley asked sharply. “Get over it, Ford. We were _both_ stupid kids who did dumb things and hurt each other, and you hurting _more_ now doesn’t help anything.” He scoffed. “Who cares if it’s ‘just’ or not, anyway? I don’t. Justice is dumb.”

As often happened, Stanley’s stubborn, matter-of-fact refusal to consider it did more to dispel the nightmare than any amount of Ford’s reason could. He sighed, releasing some of the dark, clinging guilt (guilt long ago forgiven, after all, even if never undone).

He also couldn’t resist a laugh, though. “‘Justice is dumb’?” he repeated teasingly. “ _There’s_ a deep, profound philosophical statement.”

Stan shrugged. “Eh, you know what I mean,” he said, and Ford could hear his grin. “What’s it ever done for us?”

“A fair point, I suppose.” Ford was well aware he did not, justly, deserve the life he was now blessed with…but that kind of worry had never helped him or anyone else, come to think of it.

“You bet it is,” Stanley said smugly. “So. Ready to punch our way outta your nightmare?”

Ford finally pulled away from his brother, to see a familiar glint in his eye. He grinned back. “If you say so. I’m not sure there’s much that's solid enough to fight, though…”

Stanley raised an eyebrow, glancing around. Belatedly, Ford realized that the dreamworld was even darker than it had been--but unevenly, the blackness undulating around them in patches. “I think we’ll find somethin’.” Stan raised his fists and nonchalantly blew across them, one at a time; Ford watched in fascination as shining knuckledusters materialized around them. “Whaddaya think for you, Sixer? Melee or distance?”

“Hmm…” Ford looked around at the darkness again. After a moment’s consideration, he broke into a smile. “Melee, I think,” he said, holding out one hand and displaying his weapon of choice.

Stanley looked doubtful. “A dagger? Not very big…”

“ _Blasphemy_.” Ford tilted the blade in his hand, watching it flicker with a cold fire against the dark. “If it’s good enough for Shelob, it’s good enough for a common nightmare.”

His brother’s doubt evaporated, transforming into a fond eyeroll. “You _nerd._ ”

“You say that as if it’s a surprise.” Ford shot him a bright, reckless grin, readying the elf-blade in his grasp. “Shall we?”

Stan returned it with the same daredevil gleam he’d had since they were kids, moving to square his shoulders up against Ford’s until they were back-to-back. “Let’s go, bro.”

Ford took a moment to ready himself--and then, raising his chosen weapon, his brother’s presence solid at his back, concentrated.

“This is my mind,” he said clearly. “And I say it’s time to wake up…whether you want me to or not.”

The darkness writhed, gathered, and surged towards them.

_Strangling blackness--terror--reaching, consuming--_

For a moment, Ford quailed as it washed over him--but then he heard his brother’s battle-cry, and saw the gleam of his mind’s blade, and remembered.

The darkness was only a nightmare. He and Stanley were real.

“ _A Elbereth Gilthoniel!”_ he yelled, and stabbed out with Sting.

It was a mad, whirling battle--slashing and cutting into the darkness itself while it tried to trap him, still him, but remained kept at bay by his weapon’s light, his shouted phrases, and most of all by his brother’s shielding presence. Stanley was whooping and yelling abuse at it, insults mingling with the impacts of his metal-clad fists.

Ford had no idea _how_ this was working, but working it was beyond a doubt.

Finally, the dark cleared…replaced by a calm, clear radiance.

Ford looked around, relaxing a little in the lightened atmosphere. They were still on the deck of the Stan O’ War II…but not the same deck. This one, although still afloat on a nocturnal sea, was bathed in a bright, reassuring light, and the water was alive with trails of phosphorescence and the movements of sea creatures. The horizon was filled with islands, ships, and other landing-places, all of which Ford knew intimately.

Despite the relative peace here, though, something else still tingled at the edge of his awareness. He looked up.

The night sky, as usual, was a dark, clear midnight blue--its depths made luminous by a brilliant moon and crowded with all Ford’s favorite constellations, blazing forth in a mishmash of New Jersey springs and Oregon summers and nights in distant dimensions. (Although even the brightest of them was faint in comparison to the Big Dipper’s steady brilliance, or the trail of the shooting star that continually winged its way through the firmament.) But on one horizon, where the Aurora Borealis danced, he saw a glimpse of a black form.

Materializing a spyglass in his hand, he hurriedly zoomed in on the foreign presence. Even as he looked, though, it fled entirely, leaving him with only a half-formed impression.

He exhaled, forgetting the spyglass.

“It gone?” Stanley asked.

He nodded. “Yes…”

“Y’don’t sound happy.”

He looked around, smiling at his brother. “Believe me, Stanley, I’m _very_ relieved it’s gone. Just…”

“Lookin’ for answers?”

He grinned, glancing aside. “You know me all too well.”

“Hey, I was pretty happy about that when I came in here,” Stanley rejoined, throwing an arm around his shoulder and ruffling his hair. “Your mindscape’s a pain to navigate, y’know that?”

“Not as much as yours,” Ford argued. “And anyway, I was trapped in a nightmare when you came in. I’d imagine that made it more complicated than usual…”

He trailed off, straightening as his own words suddenly clicking together with the impression he’d gained through the spyglass. “A _Nightmare._ ”

“Uhhhh…yes?” Stan looked worried.

“That’s what it was! A Nightmare, I’m almost certain of it!” He stared into the distance of his own mindscape, the Aurora Borealis brightening in time with his whirling thoughts. _That could mean…_

“Uh. _Yeah._ Thought we settled that."

He turned to Stanley. “No, no, sorry. I meant--the creature, it was a capital-N Nightmare, I think! A black horse, formed out of corrupted dreams…Remember? We’ve heard about them! Just never actually encountered one before.” He frowned. “Although I don’t remember anything about them being able to fully enter minds like this…”

“Ohhhh, yeah, okay.” Stanley snapped his fingers. “That does sound familiar…Geez, just our luck, huh?”

“ _Apparently,_ ” Ford agreed. “…Though I have to say, even aside from the attack itself, I’m not comfortable with having found a Nightmare this far north. They haven’t been seen in years, as far as I know…”

Stanley blinked. “Oh. Yeah. This close to the North Pole, in December…Smells like trouble.” He grimaced. “So…time to wake up now, yeah?”

“I’d say so,” Ford agreed. “Even aside from the implications of this encounter, I’d imagine our bodies are uncomfortably cold by now. Unless you relocated us first…” After all, they’d been in the middle of an Arctic ice cave when the blackness had leapt out at him and dragged him into slumber.

“Relocated?” Stanley repeated incredulously. “Stanford, the way your heart was racing after that thing got you, I thought you were gonna have a heart attack! I didn’t have time to drag you back to the _boat_.”

“All right, all right! It was just a thought,” Ford clarified, holding up his hands. “Thank you for acting promptly.…Now let’s get out of here before we get frostbite.”

“Seconded on _that,_ ” Stan agreed. “On three?”

“Certainly.”

“One, two, three--”

Stanford woke up.

“Gah!” he exclaimed, bolting upright. “ _Cold._ ” Fully aware of his body for the first time in…some time, he was almost regretting it. The ice was very pretty, but _very very cold._

“Yeesh, you’re tellin’ me!” his brother’s voice said, and he turned to see Stanley dragging himself upright. “Augh. Maybe I should’ve dragged you back to the boat first after all…”

Ford remembered where he’d been when Stanley had found him in the dream. He shuddered a little more than he already was. “No, I’m just as glad you didn’t,” he said honestly. “Personally…I’d take this over another minute alone in _that_.”

Stanley put a hand on his shoulder as he pushed to his feet, then pulled Ford up by the armpit. “Yeah, okay then,” he grumbled, brushing off Ford’s coat. “Let’s get outta here, huh? Get warmed up.”

Ford turned toward the entrance gratefully, drawing him close with one arm as he did. “Sounds good to me. And then…” He trailed off, thinking. “Then we’ll either have to get to the North Pole ourselves, or find some way to send a message, yes?”

“Yeah, one a those…” Stanley snorted, grinning. “Cause we have to warn Santa about the Nightmare.”

“Now, Stanley, you know ‘Santa’ isn’t his actual name…”

“Eh. I’m old and set in my ways, I’ll call him what I want.”

Ford flinched a little. He knew it was a joke, Stanley abusing his Old Man Powers _yet again,_ but still…

“Somethin’ wrong?”

He bit his lip. “Would you mind _not_ calling yourself old? For a little while, at least?”

Stanley stopped. “Hey. Hey, Ford, look at me.”

He did.

Stanley’s eyes were worried, and protective, but most of all determined. “Whatever the stupid nightmare said, I’m plannin’ to stay on the Stan O’ War for a long, long time, okay?” He waited expectantly.

Ford nodded, helpless to do anything else in the face of his certainty.

“Good. _And--_ ” he paused for emphasis “--whenever one of us _does_ need to take a break, or even settle on land for good, it’s gonna be both of us. _Nothing_ is gonna separate us again. Got it?”

Ford felt himself break into a full-fledged smile, the last vestiges of the nightmare blowing away and evaporating. “Got it,” he repeated.

The Nightmare had done its best to shake him, but really? His foundations were laid deeper than it could hope to reach.

Thinking of this, and watching Stanley, he spoke again. “After all…wherever we go--”

“ _\--we go together,_ ” Stanley finished with him. His eyes bright (suspiciously bright, even, but Ford would keep that to himself), he raised a hand. “High six?”

Ford’s gloved palm met his own. “High six.”


End file.
